A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Bright yellow sunlight filled the stateroom, swaying and wobbling across the walls as the boat rocked in the water; there was a subtle clicking noise from a loose drawer pull, ticking arrhythmically with the movement. Michael rubbed his eyes and stretched. He felt well, hale, rested, strong; even the galling uncertainty of his days seemed to have receded and his mind was clear now. He had woken from a dream in which Éowyn and Éomer were trying to teach him how to ride a horse. He could even feel the smooth leather of the saddle beneath his hand, warmed by the sun, could smell the sweet musky scent of the horse, hear its heavy breath, its irritable whicker. "Ready, one, two, three," Éowyn was saying, her hands on his waist; he had one booted foot in the stirrup, and was hanging on to the saddle horn, trying to pull himself up. He could see Éomer holding the horse's head, grinning at him. "Don't pull his mane," Éomer cautioned, and just as he pushed up with his foot to mount the horse in his dream, his leg actually twitched in his sleep, waking him.

He looked over at the little clock that was screwed to the wall. He had slept long – it was already after nine. But he couldn't remember having slept so deeply, with no interruptions, in weeks; the mattress was comfortable, the sheets downy-soft, even the pillow was perfect – solid foam rubber, Michael's favorite kind – so he lay there, drowsing, contented in his torpor, listening to the thump and squeak of footsteps above him, and the swish of the surf, the cry of the gull, the low muffled voices of his friends, drifting upon a fresh briny breeze through the open porthole.

He leafed randomly through his thoughts and recent memories, looking half-heartedly for the reason behind his quietly euphoric state. What had happened in the past twenty-four hours to raise him from his former apprehensive and discontented outlook? He sorted through the events of yesterday: Doris and Gimli's engagement, the arrival of the White Lady, meeting Éomer, Lottie, and Éowyn, the gathering around the bonfire, and – he smiled and bit his lip – breaking a three-week hiatus in his sex life – wouldn't that cheer anyone up? And he'd learned a lot too – Gimli wasn't human – Éowyn was an assassin – everyone thought he was brave – that made him smile again – and Frances had been married to a woman, and that woman was now Legolas' wife.

He mulled over that for a while, lazily exploring his reactions. Why did this bother him less than what he'd assumed before, that Legolas and Frances had been lovers? Well – the obvious answer, he supposed, was that with Legolas as Frances' Ex, there was always that possibility Frances still looked after and desired Legolas (who could blame him?), but since Frances was obviously gay, nothing Éowyn could do would draw him away from Michael's side. Did it bother him that Frances had been married to a woman? Michael thought about this as hard as he could, considering his rather soporific state, and came to the conclusion that no, it didn't. He actually felt kind of sorry for Éowyn. This was no great stretch for him, as he was in the enviable position of the Possessor of the Alpha in question; it was easy to be pitying and condescending in his case – he had "won," he had Frances, and Éowyn didn't.

He personally couldn't imagine trying to be married to a woman, and supposed Frances and Éowyn had only made each other miserable, until Frances had finally come out of the closet. What a difficult decision that must have been for him – to completely alter his personal life like that! And how mortifying that must've been for Éowyn, too – Michael gave a sympathetic shiver – she must have somehow felt it was partly her fault, that she wasn't Woman enough to keep him. Suddenly Michael wanted to rush topside and tell her that it wasn't her fault Frances was gay, and it didn't reflect on her feminine attractions in the slightest. Because, of course, it didn't – Doris had been right – Éowyn was STUNNING. Michael thought Arwen was flawlessly lovely, remote, austere; Lottie was pretty and perky and cute and childish, but Éowyn was so blatantly, sexually, sensually, opulently magnificent she nearly dazzled him. Perhaps it was the overlaid vision he had of her, golden and shining, drifting weightlessly, starry eyes alight in the presence of the Valar. He didn't know, and it didn't really matter anyway. The secret grudge he'd nursed against her had dissolved, and all that was left was a sort of patient and bewildered admiration.

He sat up, wincing a bit as he did so – KY or not, three weeks was a long time – and looked around indifferently for his clothes. He spied his swim trunks, inside-out on the floor where Frances had flung them, and crawled out of bed, picked them up, and pulled them on. They were still sandy and gritty, but Michael didn't really care; he was planning on going swimming later, anyway.

He straightened his hair in the big Art Deco mirror, thinking a little regretfully to himself that it was a shame his life couldn't always be like this – subtle luxury, no financial worries or social concerns, days filled with choices between snorkeling or sunbathing, as opposed to work or poverty – a shame Dr. Ahn had to ruin everything by simply existing, his obnoxious plans forcing them to abandon their island paradise – just when Michael was developing a taste for rock lobster and Painkillers, too – to pursue him all the way up the coast, put a stop to his nefarious plotting, and then – well, then what? Michael paused, looking round the somewhat Spartan room thoughtfully. Would he and Frances simply go home after that? It seemed so anticlimactic somehow. He hoped they, like Gimli and Doris, would take a year off too, sailing, swimming, shopping, relaxing … odd that he'd never wondered whether Frances could afford it. Odd that he'd never questioned how much money Frances made as a computer programmer, able to afford a nice condo and a Lexus. Odd that he'd never asked Frances about his family. But those sharp, sidelong looks, the Not-Discussed categories, had pushed Michael into a state of fearing to ask, and now that it seemed Frances wouldn't mind telling, suddenly Michael didn't care any more. What if Frances was an alien? Oh, well … at least he was good in bed. What if he didn't need to work, was independently wealthy? Michael snorted. Like he'd complain about THAT! And besides, it would explain the clothes, the car, the expensive restaurants, the carte blanche Frances had given him while redoing his décor. What if Frances was part of some anti-government subversive group of weirdos running around the world righting Wrongs? Well, what of it? Michael shrugged to himself. He'd already decided which side of the fence he was riding – Frances' side, for good or ill – and if it happened to be on the far side of the U.S. Government, Michael would be right there with him. Like most gay Americans Michael had no especial love for the predominantly conservative government over them; if there were some way he could exact some niggling revenge (without personal risk, of course) he was all for it. Giving the sheets a perfunctory smoothing and throwing the heavy white bedspread over them, Michael left the stateroom and headed up to the deck.

The sun was very bright, and Michael squinted, wondering where he'd left his sunglasses. Oh yes, in the cockpit yesterday, when Éomer had been enthusiastically showing him their computer-controlled navigation system – easier than reading paper charts, anyway – he looked around the deck, expecting to see at least one or two people about, but it appeared deserted. He headed to the cockpit, stepped down to the tinted door, and went in.

Aragorn was sitting there, rope-soled shoes propped up on the desk, frowning at the slim black laptop perched on his knees; he glanced up at Michael when he entered and gave a quick smile. " 'Bout time you rolled out of bed," he said easily, giving the keyboard a couple of taps. "Éowyn's been looking for you."

"She has?" Yesterday that would have worried him, paranoid as he'd been over her potential reaction to his attraction to her husband; today, though, all his nagging fears seemed to have receded, become inconsequential, leaving him with a sort of pink-cushioned, blissful contentment. He spied his sunglasses, sitting where he'd left them next to the radio. He leaned over Aragorn and picked them up. "Where is everyone?"

"Legolas and Faramir took the dinghies to the island to pick everyone up," said Aragorn absently, frowning at whatever he was reading on the computer. "Arwen's around somewhere, probably up in the rigging or something."

"Is there anything for breakfast?" asked Michael. He supposed he could be curious about what Aragorn was doing, but for some reason his inquisitiveness was at a low point – most likely saturated by everything he'd learned the day before. At the moment his greatest concern was his empty stomach.

"Bagels and cream cheese in the mess," said Aragorn. "And coffee."

"Good. I'm hungry," said Michael, turning toward the door. He was about to ask Aragorn if he wanted a cup of coffee, but Aragorn preempted him.

"After the workout Faramir gave you last night, I'm not surprised."

Michael felt his face grow hot; his heart skittered to a stop. He turned slowly, eyes wide, wondering what Aragorn had meant, saying something like that in his dry, clinical voice, his Doctor Walker voice. Was it Disapproval? Disgust? Censure? But Aragorn just considered Michael gravely, only the suggestion of a twinkle in his eye betraying him. Michael opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out; what could he say in response to that, anyway? It was mortifying enough to think that everyone might have heard them.

"Need anything? Ice pack, soft cushion, Preparation H?" Now the corner of Aragorn's mouth was twitching, and Michael's heart slowed; this didn't sound as though Aragorn were offended or shocked at all; he was teasing Michael. Deciding to carry it back into enemy territory, Michael retorted boldly:

"No, thank you, though you might want to check that hickie on your collarbone." He pointed to the gap in Aragorn's collar, through which a patch of discolored skin peeped through; Aragorn grinned, and Michael, smiling self-consciously, went back out on deck, then down to the mess. He toasted himself a bagel, spread it liberally with cream cheese, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He poked around a minute, hunting out sugar and creamer, and found to his gratification turbinado sugar and whole milk, which he stirred in to the strong and slightly bitter brew. He took everything topside and sat in a deck chair with a satisfied sigh. He could get used to this.

While he ate and drank he watched the little puffs of white cloud hurrying across the blue dome above them, watched pelicans and terns and seagulls being tossed and buffeted by the stiff breeze, listened to the swish and clank of the rigging and the water on the hull. The White Lady was not much like the Semi-Impermeable, for which Michael was extremely thankful. It was big, and luxurious, and well-appointed, and comfortable, and above all safe – Michael felt that sailing up the coast in the Semi-Impermeable would've been pushing their luck, but he had no such qualms about the White Lady. He felt very grateful for Legolas, who had purchased it, and for Éomer, Éowyn, and Lottie, who had brought it here. And he felt grateful for whoever had supplied thick chewy bagels and fattening velvety cream cheese and pungent smooth coffee, and for their foresight in providing them not with plain white sugar and powdered creamer, but tasty raw cane sugar and real milk. The Little Debbie snack cakes and beef jerky seemed a thing of the past, for which he was profoundly appreciative. He finished his breakfast in the pleasant silence, pausing every now and then to savor the sweet bite of his coffee, or the scent of the light cool breeze, or the feel of the warm sunshine on his skin; then, his aesthetic senses humming pleasantly, he brushed the crumbs off his lap, threw a leftover chunk of bagel to an impatiently waiting sea gull, and went back to his cabin.

He found a new toothbrush and some toothpaste and went to the head. It was a lot larger than he'd expected, and he remembered that it was one of two on board – four staterooms, two bathrooms – compared to the Semi-Impermeable it was as though he were living in rank luxury. He took a quick shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, and put on a fresh pair of swimming trunks he'd found in the dresser of their stateroom – lavender and pale yellow; he felt like an Easter egg – hung up his towel, re-straightened the bed – whether Perfection were Required by his Alpha or not, he would rather the bed didn't look a rumpled mess; it SO disharmonized with the clean white lines of the room – and padded up the stairs to the deck.

He looked around a moment; he could see Arwen, perched in the rigging high above him; the sun reflected off her pale skin and slick glossy hair, and he could hear the faint ululation of her voice over the breeze whistling through the sheets. When he looked to the stern, he saw a tall white figure topped with restless gold – Éowyn, standing wrapped in a gauzy white robe, her gleaming curls tossed and tumbled in the wind, looking out over the ocean, motionless. Remembering that Aragorn had said she'd wanted to speak to him, he walked over to her, the soles of his feet flinching slightly at the sun-heated deck boards.

Her face in profile was abstract, thoughtful; those silvery-gray eyes kindled from within, and her full red lips were parted a little over her white teeth. Michael waited for her to acknowledge him – was she Listening, the way her husband Listened? – and occupied himself with admiring her proud carriage, the long slender neck where it met her collarbones, the tawny curls shifting around her shoulders, the glint of gold at her cheekbones from the big hoop earrings she wore. After a moment she said quietly, in her deep soft voice: "Do you know what Yavanna calls you?"

Michael's heart skipped; he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Why should any of the Valar care what his name was anyway? And why should they bother re-naming him? What was wrong with "Michael"? But then he remembered that Manwë had referred to Legolas as "Beloved Listener," and Legolas had called Éowyn "My Heartbeat." He supposed it was like some Top-Secret Astral Code. "What?" he asked; he was surprised to find he was whispering.

"The Dreamer." Éowyn turned to him and blinked slowly; when her eyes opened they had lost their ethereal glow and had sharpened, so that he felt pinned by her gaze, helpless and immobile. He swallowed, fighting the urge to drop his eyes and clasp his hands behind his back, a typical submissive response. He could well imagine how unhappy she and Frances had been together; she seemed to him steel-girt, rigid, cold, but housing hot fire within that could either burn or excite; there was nothing of the Shrinking Violet in THIS woman. And had Frances ever attempted to exercise some sort of Alpha-control over her, he knew exactly how she'd respond: to curl up, armadillo-like, hiding that fire within and showing only the impenetrable icy shell. And the more Frances would hammer at that shell demanding entrance, the tighter she'd wind herself, the hot fire dying into a sullen coal, the twisted posture fixed and unmoving.

"Yes," she said, her eyes sad, though that wide sweet mouth smiled. "We were very unhappy at the end."

"How do you DO that?" asked Michael irritably, turning to the rail and looking down into the water. He could see little fish down there, clustering round the rudder, flashing silver in the sunlight. "Between you and Legolas I'm not going to be allowed to have a private thought ever AGAIN."

"Oh, you will," said Éowyn, and to his surprise she slipped her hand around the crook in his elbow. Her fingers were strong and warm. "My Lady said this wouldn't last forever. Right now your mind is open to us, and invites us in. You can also see a little of the future." She smiled, her eyes warm. "Oromë likes you. So does Elbereth." At Michael's bewildered look she said, "Well, you must know, Michael, you're very easy to like. You accept people the way they are, and when you don't have anything to say, you don't say anything. Those are two very rare qualities in a Mortal."

Michael felt as though she'd slipped a long, sharp icicle into his heart. He didn't really want to discuss his Mortality – it had a final, door-closing feel to it that forced him to confront his upcoming Death. And why should he die, just when life was becoming so sweet? "Will Ossë really get me?" he asked, his voice sounding very small and scared in his ears. He felt her fingers tighten around his arm.

"Yavanna's talking to him," she said gently, looking down at him and smiling, comforting, soothing. "Their demesnes skirt each other, and my Lady's bounty extends even to Ossë's deeps. They don't always get along, but they seem to understand each other."

Michael considered this. "And no matter what I do, if he wants me dead he can get me, even when I'm on shore," he said thoughtfully, staring down into the murky water. "He even comes at me in my dreams." He bit his lip. "Should I tell Frances any of this?" he asked, turning back to her, his eyebrows puckered. "Legolas said I shouldn't, but I think he needs to know."

"Yes, Legolas and I have already argued about that," said Éowyn dryly, looking out over the water, an errant curl waving round her white forehead. "He's so concerned about Faramir's position amongst us that he doesn't want to rock the boat – but keeping something this important from him is only going to make him that much angrier when he eventually finds out." She looked down at him, frowning a little. "I'd tell him," she said. "Yes, even though Legolas told you not to. You don't HAVE to do everything he says, you know," she added, her eyes twinkling.

"Do YOU?" asked Michael abruptly, wondering why he was being so bold, and if the question would make her angry. But she threw her head back and laughed, a rich, throaty laugh, and squeezed his arm again.

"When I know his orders are coming from Manwë, sure," she admitted, grinning and tucking the curl behind her ear. "But not when he's being bloody-minded. I just tell him to go fuck himself and then I go do what I want."

Michael thought about that, thought about what Frances would do if Michael responded to him that way. He didn't think the reaction would be very pleasant. But he could well imagine what Legolas would say, if Michael dared to respond to him with a sarcastic comment or an argument. He could just see the lively eyes sparkle with mirth, the rosebud mouth stretch into a delighted grin, dimples flashing, could even hear his satisfied belly-laugh at such audacity. No wonder Legolas was constantly pushing people; he WANTED a response, WANTED to see that people were paying attention to him, WANTED to goad people into thinking for themselves and getting off their duffs so that they would DO something. "I bet Legolas likes it when you stand up to him," he said.

"He does," said Éowyn with a soft, reminiscent smile. "He spent twenty-four hours awakening my Inner Bitch, and revels when I lose my temper." Unbidden to Michael's mind came the image of Legolas rolling the Iron Armadillo over, struggling to uncurl it and release the flames within, then laughing when the fire shot up, not burning him, but igniting him instead. "Yes," he said. "I can see that."

They were quiet a few minutes more, but it was the comfortable quiet Michael was starting to recognize that he shared with Legolas. Éowyn wasn't a difficult person to get along with after all, once you figured her out, he thought. Despite the fact Legolas and Éowyn had that weird Spiritual Awareness about them, they seemed also to engender a gentle trust, which Michael found hauntingly attractive, and weirdly comforting at the same time. After about ten minutes Michael asked, "Are you an Alien too, like Legolas and Arwen?"

Éowyn laughed again. "No, Michael," she said, leaning her elbows on the railing. "I'm just as human as you are."

"Oh," said Michael. That made him feel a little better. "Aragorn said you wanted to talk to me."

"Yes," said Éowyn carelessly. "I need to teach you how to use a handgun."

Michael gulped and stared at her. She turned to him calmly, one eyebrow raised.

"It's not just Ossë you have to fear," she pointed out reasonably, patting his cheek. "Yavanna and Oromë are worried about you, and they told me you needed to know how to defend yourself." She pushed herself off the railing and started toward the biminy, the gauzy white robe whipping round her long golden legs and catching up into the breeze. When he hesitated, wondering what Frances would think when he returned to find Michael holding a gun, she only grinned at him and gestured him forward. "Come along, Dreamer," she said, gently teasing; the wind rippled her white robe and cast up her hair like a halo, and against the bright blue sky she seemed to Michael to be some sort of primitive priestess, choosing her next acolyte – or victim. "I may not do everything Legolas tells me, but I sure as hell obey my Lady."

There wasn't much Michael could say to dispute that, so he nodded and agreed, hoping Frances wouldn't be angry, and wondering how on earth he was going to explain his dreams to him.